Until It's Time
by Javanyet
Summary: Sometimes all it takes is the right song to make everything clear.
1. Texan Tibet

When Mike was right, he was right. And he was right to be smugly proud of his music setup.

The music room he'd built at his pad was a kingdom unto itself, and boasted a stereo system, recording equipment and a collection of acoustic and electric guitars. But the house, and its location high in the Hollywood Hills, almost drove the promise of hearing her late brother Benny's only existing recording right from Bonnie's mind.

It wasn't an enormous house but it seemed to hang on the edge, with a narrow outside deck facing the city running the length of the house.

"Holy _crap_ Nesmith! You didn't tell me you lived in _Tibet._" Bonnie ran straight from the front door through the large, open living room and out the middle door in the wall of glass opposite.

"Whoa, slow down there," Mike strode after her. "That drop's a killer."

She'd stopped short at the deck rail and was staring bug-eyed at the view over the hills, the city, and straight to the ocean. Okay, she had to squint just a little to see the water but so what?

"How did you find this place?"

He shrugged. "Same real estate agent as the other guys. When that first fat check came in, we all went house hunting."

Bonnie looked over her shoulder at him. "But the other guys have huge places, lawns, pools, all that." She'd never seen them herself, but the pictures, and the stories of parties and jam sessions (and groupies), were legend among the crew. She looked down the hillside. "How do you throw a party here without major casualties?"

"No parties, that's how," he said flatly. When she looked surprised he added, "I'm not the other guys. How about I get us a drink and cue up that tape?"

"Can I see the rest of the place?" Bonnie asked, handing him the box she'd been hanging onto since they left the studio.

"Help yourself. Don't lean too far out the windows," he warned as he went to the kitchen. "And don't rummage through the closets," he called after her as she sprinted up the stairs, "today's the maid's day off and it'll take days to dig you out of the rubble."

Bonnie laughed to herself as bounded onto the second floor. It wasn't anything like she'd expected. Aside from a few prints and pieces of native pottery here and there, Nesmith's pad didn't reflect any Southwest décor she'd recognize. It was gleaming white: the walls, ceilings, doors, everything but the dark wood beams. There were skylights above the hallway upstairs. Some doors were open. She peeked into one and knew it had to be a library. Shelves built into the white walls were lined with books. Leather bound literature, paperback classic novels. A little bit of everything.

She ran back into the hallway and yelled down the stairs, "Hey Nesmith, where's the Zane Grey?"

His dark head poked around the corner, his expression not-amused. "I told you before, I ain't no cowboy. Not everybody from Texas is a shitkicker. Now c'mon down here before the wine gets warm." He disappeared again.

_Wine?_

"Wine?" she called after him as she looked into a standard, if upscale, granite-lined bathroom. Big glassed in shower, _and_ an oversized tub. She'd have killed to have that instead of the tiny midget-clawfoot model at her place.

"Sorry, stranger, I'm fresh outta rotgut whiskey!" he hollered back.

Before going downstairs Bonnie looked in the last door near the stairs, into an enormous bedroom furnished with what had to be custom-made furniture of Mission oak… a couple of oversized chairs, one low table, a desk and office chair, and side tables next to the bed. More bookcases, stereo speakers set into the walls, and shelves of books and record albums. There were sliding glass doors that led onto a tiled deck furnished with a few more, smaller sized Mission tables and chairs. Against the bedroom wall, facing the glass doors, was the biggest bed she'd ever seen, with a towering oak headboard. A patchwork of spreads made of rabbit, some of velvet, and a huge swath of what looked like chinchilla was strewn all over it. Unable to believe it, Bonnie ventured into the room and reached out to touch the bed coverings. _Oh my god it is chinchilla_. She ran her hand across it, and the rabbit and the velvet... all of it. She'd never felt anything so swooningly soft all in one place... _what that must feel like against a body… or two of them…_

She jumped a mile at the sound of Mike's voice.

"Hope you didn't bring your white glove, like I said it's the maid's day off." He was leaning in the doorway, arms folded, watching her with an amused grin.

"_Jesus_ Nesmith, you wanna give me a heart attack?" Bonnie didn't know if she was more embarrassed by being caught checking out the bed, or by the possibility that he could read on her face what she'd been thinking.

"Well if I did, this would be the place," Mike winked, and walked away. "Now if you're through researching for House Beautiful… feel free to join me in the music room."

Standing there stupidly until she heard the clatter of his boots descending the stairs, Bonnie followed without sparing another look around the bedroom. She knew as well as Nesmith did they'd be back here sometime or other; the only question was when.


	2. Making Some Space

"See? I told you you'd be all right."

Bonnie was forced to agree with Mike's only-slightly-smug observation as she lounged comfortably in a lush recliner, surrounded by Benny's unimaginable guitar tunes. He'd been right about the quality of the sound, but then he was sure of it. He'd designed the system himself. The tape had already played through once, and was rewound and played again at Mike's insistence. Now he had one of his vintage Gibsons in hand and was trying to pick up one of the more complex tunes.

"Nuh-uh, Nesmith, the harmonics are all on the _right_ hand," Bonnie corrected. "But not bad for a beginner," she teased.

"Well how the hell," Mike muttered, right hand down low as usual, the left up on the fretboard.

"_Right_ hand." Bonnie crawled out of the recliner and knelt on the thick carpet in front of Mike where he sat at one end of the impossibly long sofa. "Here, like this." She slid Mike's right hand up to where his left was, and then pushed the left hand back. "Just support he neck with the left hand. Now wherever you want the note, tweak it, think kind of like a harpsichord. Your forefinger is striking the string, while your thumb is plucking it up."

After a time or two, he struck a note that rang like crystal.

"Perfecto," Bonnie sat back on her heels and applauded. "And before you ask, no he didn't invent that. Just that nobody much uses it."

At first Mike was completely focused on his hands as he worked on other notes, but then he looked up and asked, "You sure you don't play?"

She nodded. "Nah, just a good observer. I don't have the dexterity. But I understand the mechanics inside and out."

"This is more than mechanics," he insisted, sitting up again and closing his eyes as the last flourish of the tune subsided. The reel-to-reel shut itself off when the tape ran out. "Damn, it's definitely more than that."

Bonnie reached for her glass and drained the last of the very good white wine Mike had opened. "Well _yeah_, I like to think of it as the difference between playing they music and playing the _instrument_. Any fool can learn to hit the right notes, right? But every instrument has its own voice, and you have to know how to help it sing."

"You have a poet's heart, Morris. Unfortunately it's trapped in the body of an administrative enforcer."

"Ha, ha. Well it ran in the family, I guess. The poet's heart part, anyway. As for the rest, Benny always said when he was ready for a manager, I'd be the only one he'd hire." She smiled, and sat back on her heels. "So, as long as you're armed and dangerous, why don't you play something _you_ like? Something nobody's paying you to play. You've written some pretty outtasight stuff for the show and the band, but none of that. Something totally that comes from here and now." She settled back, leaning against the nearby ottoman, and waited.

"Hmm, lemme think." Mike set the Gibson back on its stand and got up to select yet another guitar. "Got this Martin Goya from a dealer a couple weeks ago, set me back a pile of bread. But if you're gonna make 'em sing, they gotta have the voice, and a good voice don't come cheap." He saw Bonnie was watching him intently. "Quit staring, okay? This isn't a gig."

"That's crazy," she protested. "People look at you all the time when you're playing. I like watching hands while they're playing." _More to the point, I like watching __your__ hands._ But she didn't say that out loud.

"Well this isn't 'all the time'. So just sit back and close your eyes and pretend I'm on tape like Benny."

"Fine, Mr. Prima Dona." She did as he asked. When he began the few bars of lead-in she asked, "Is this new? I kind of recognize it, but I'm not sure. Not one of yours, I don't think."

Without stopping, he looked at her where she sat, eyes obediently closed, and mouth still running. "Are you gonna listen or are you gonna rap?" He caught the edge in his voice, and added more evenly, "And no, it's not one of mine, it's by that Indian songwriter Buffy Saint Marie. I recorded it before I came to L.A. but it never went anywhere."

"_Fine_, sorry…"

The first thing she noticed was the difference in his voice. No funky rhythms, none of the subtle – and sometimes not-so-subtle – Texas twang. His phrasing was so smooth, so sweetly lyrical, it almost didn't sound like Mike Nesmith at all.

The second thing she noticed was the lyrics. It wasn't a love song, exactly, but it was a real-life song about maybe-almost-love, risking a lot, expecting just the moment. When she heard the phrase "you could have stayed outside my heart, but in you came, so here you'll stay until it's time for you to go" she risked a squinty-eyed peek... and caught him looking steadily at her, then down again at his guitar, as if gauging the distance between the music and reality. Then Bonnie lost herself in the delicate guitar break, and the poignantly beautiful last lines that spun out like velvet in Mike's even tenor. When the quiet echo of the guitar faded, Bonnie opened her eyes carefully. He was still looking down at the guitar, examining the strings.

"Damn, Nesmith." She tried to think of something more clever to say, but couldn't.

"It's kinda different," he admitted with a shrug. "Not exactly mindblowing rock'n'roll."

"Doesn't have to be, for christsake. Has anyone told you that you sing like an angel when you have the right song?" She regretted her words immediately.

"Well _hello_, honesty," Mike sniped, his expression darkening, but Bonnie managed to cut him off.

"No goddammit that's not what I meant. I mean, your songs are fantastic, they're more real and thoughtful than all the other crap you guys get fed. But aside from a couple of them, you write leaving songs, and stay-away songs, like that. Even when they're a thing of beauty, there's this sadness. This one, well it wasn't. Sad, I mean. Just a thing of beauty. Who cares who wrote it?" She waited.

"I think I have you figured out, Morris," Mike told her, "When you slip on a banana peel, you just start to dance. Makes it all better." He leaned forward for emphasis, "I mean that."

"So… where'd it come from?" she wanted to know.

"Told ya, I recorded it a while back. Buffy Saint Marie."

He was dodging, so she wove. "I heard you. I mean, why when I told you to do something that comes from here and now, you sang that, sweet enough to cry for."

"Why do I get the feeling you have an answer in mind?" he asked, then put the guitar aside and motioned around them. "Here and now, huh. Yeah, a little bit. Morris, we both know why we're here. Because nobody else gets us like we do. Even if we can't figure it out."

Finally Bonnie slid closer to the sofa, looking up at him. "I might have to disagree. I think maybe you just did figure it out."

They looked at each other in silence for a minute, and a half-smile came to Mike's face. "You could be right. There was this girl in New York…"

"Now is not the time for confession, Nesmith," Bonnie declared with a roll of her eyes. "I don't _care_ who you got it on with, I know the difference between this and that." Mike gestured impatiently, but Bonnie continued, "I've been around enough musicians to know that groupies aren't much different than jerking off, they just give you something besides your hands to work with. So I couldn't care less."

"Congratulations, you've shut me down again without knowing what I was gonna say. I don't guess you care it's not what you think."

Bonnie shook her head. "I'm finding out nothing much about you is what I think."

Mike reached for his shades and put them on. "Back at ya, _Siobhan_."

"It's not the same thing," she bristled, and he leaned forward again.

"That so? How the hell do you know if you won't listen? And this time you are gonna listen, lady, because you're in _my_ house and it's a long walk back to your place." He poured her a glass of wine from a second bottle, and slapped it down on the coffee table with almost enough force to break the stem. "Now drink up, and _shut_ up, because I can talk almost as good as I can sing if you will open your ears. Like I said, there was a girl in New York, desk clerk at the hotel, and she came on strong enough to kill, talking about some other girl she knew that I had after the New York gig, talking like getting at my dick was like getting a trophy. And as usual I wasn't in the mood to say no, so I said c'mon in. And just as we were getting down to it, my brain started wrestling with my balls, and I tried to talk to her like a real person. I asked her last name… not interested. I tried to tell her about being able to play on stage for the first time… not interested. Then I said okay, let's do it, but no autograph, how's that suit ya? And she shut down real quick. And I thought, _fuck _this. For the first time I can remember I got fed up _before_ I got laid. So I kicked her out and took a cold shower and slept like a baby. And if comparing this to that were a song, it'd be the one I just sang. The segue's a little rough, but I think you get the picture."

By now she was standing over him. "Like I said… I think you just got us figured out. Look, I remember what you said about wanting to find some relief with your pants on… if that's what this is with us, that's fine, because I feel the same way about it. I don't wanna mess up what's already here." But she saw he was smiling at her.

"I believe the ideal situation would be, to find relief with and without pants. And I believe we can make some space for that."

"So… what happens right now?" she asked.

Mike reached his hands out to rest on Bonnie's hips, and moved his fingers back and forth.

"Well," he drawled lazily, "right now I'm thinking we've gotten _very_ groovy at providing relief with pants on… and I am thinking what would be just the right way to seduce you into the same kinda thing with pants off."

"Ah," Bonnie said quietly and took a step closer, pulling off Mike's shades and laying them on the end table. "You wanna _seduce_ me, huh?" He nodded with a sly smile. Bonnie straddled his lap and smoothed back the thick dark bangs with one hand. Nodding in the direction of his guitar she purred, "Head's up, Nesmith… you just did. Now gimme some sugar." She took hold of his head with both hands and they locked onto each other for so long they came up gasping.

"How about we move this party upstairs," Mike suggested between kisses along the edge of Bonnie's ear.

"Thought you said no parties," she managed to challenge. _Good God he is good at this..._

"First time for everything."

Then, suddenly, he froze. "Damn. I believe I am caught short again," he sighed. He could still feel Bonnie's smile through the kisses she was laying along his neck.

"No problem," she whispered against his skin. "I started taking those little magic pills…"

"Why Morris!" Mike grabbed hold of her shoulders and held her back from him with an expression of (feigned) shock. "You are _wicked_ and _lustful_!"

He lifted her off of his lap and jumped up, smacking her on the ass and giving her a shove toward the stairs. "For that you get a 10-second head start!"


	3. Not a Dream, Not an Angel

Two sounds reached Mike as he left the music room: the scampering of bare feet up the stairs, and the slamming of his bedroom door. When was the last time he'd heard the first one? The second had been a frequent occurrence in the final months of his marriage. This time, though, the impact was careless, not explosive, and the angry rebound of the latch was absent. As he climbed the stairs, Mike could feel the heat in his gut working its way down, but it was taking its time. Usually it started down below and worked its way up, only pausing for the fuck, getting all the way to nausea in the rush to get away._ Usually_. What was "usually"? Hormonal relief – aka pants-off – in the company of strangers. Never in their arms, not for long anyway. The arms of faceless women were only for balance and leverage. It felt good to want something different. It felt better to know it was here and now.

He paused by the bedroom door, then slipped past to duck into the bathroom. He rummaged in a drawer by the sink for the small container of cocoa butter, long ignored. That it had been left there for so long raised a frown as he pried the lid off the tin. The frown faded as he ran his fingertips across the surface, glad it wasn't so long that it had turned to stone. How many women and teenage girls had he had in recent months, and never once thought about this? It had been a long, long time since the effect of string-calloused fingers on soft skin had entered his mind, let alone mattered. _Damn what am I waiting for?_ He hurriedly wiped the excess cocoa butter off on his hands and face (scruffy beard-shadow scratches too) and stepped lively to the bedroom, yanking his boots off one by one.

When he opened the door he didn't know whether to drop to his knees with desire, or die laughing. There she was, the object of his newly rediscovered potential for affection, wrapped head to toe in the chinchilla spread. Fur _in_side of course. Her Indian print blouse, jeans, and underwear were flung more-or-less in a heap by the desk. She was rolling this way and that, eyes closed, humming to herself in obvious transports of ecstasy. He dropped his boots with a thud and walked to the foot of the bed.

"Maybe I should leave you two alone."

Bonnie rolled to a stop, and rose up on one elbow to stare at him staring at her. "What took you so long?"

"Impatient? I like that." He kneeled on the bed and displayed his hands, "Just attending to some personal hygiene," he told her, omitting the details.

"How dirty can you get playing a _guitar_?" she demanded, then started to laugh as he crawled toward her like a lanky panther and sprang, landing full length next to her.

"How dirty do you want me, baby?" he growled in his faux tough-guy voice, then stopped dead. "God _damn_ Morris you look good on my bed. C'mere, will ya," he rolled her against him and worked one hand into the edge of the chinchilla where it was tucked under her.

"Mmm, your bed _feels_ good, all this fur and velvet," she sighed as he burrowed his face against her neck.

He lifted up enough to tell her, "I like soft things next to my skin…" then as he continued to pull the fur loose from her, and worked his way down her neck, he mumbled, "...thinkin' of adding ya t'my collection…"

"Mmm, I accept," she managed to gasp as she got her arms loose and started working on his shirt, not an easy thing as he was lying full length against her. "Gimme a little help, will you?" He ignored her, covering her neck and breasts with slow wet kisses, running his hands everywhere he could reach. Giving up on his shirt she pushed at him again, this time going for his belt. "Nesmith, _please_," she begged him. She wanted to get at every tall lean inch of him, to touch and taste and feel his skin and bone and pulse the way she could when she laid her face in his neck… but she couldn't _get_ at him… oh dear god, his hands were everywhere, why wouldn't he _let _her… then she pushed a little too hard, and he sat up abruptly.

Shouting, "Woman you have _no_ appreciation for subtlety!" Mike literally ripped his shirt open, sending buttons flying, and flung it over his shoulder. "Thought you might _appreciate_ a little bit of patience and anticipation, but hell, you want 'em off now, baby, then off they come!" He jumped upright on the bed and undid his jeans, hopping first on one foot and then on the other, sending them sailing after the shirt, the heavy buckle hitting the floor with a loud clatter. Then he repeated the dance, whipping off first one sock and then the other and winging them across the room. Finally he was standing over her on the bed in a state of high indignation, completely unaware that his already-rampant hard-on was announcing itself through the fly of his boxers. He glared at her and grabbed the waistband dramatically and announced, "No romantic unveiling for m'lady, nosiree bob, we'll just tear away and get to it!"

Bonnie lay there, eyes, wide, desperately trying not to explode in laughter at Mike's dance of ire. Shaking with the effort, she pointed at his crotch where the opening of the boxers was positioned like a guillotine ready to do its work.

"Careful, Nesmith... you're about to tear away a little too much." Then she gave up and rolled back and forth squealing incoherently.

"You really know how to kill a mood, Morris," Mike glowered to cover his embarrassment, carefully removed the threatening underwear, and was left wondering how to continue this love scene gracefully. "Ah, what the fuck," he muttered and fell down next to Bonnie. "Where were we?"

Bonnie's hysterics had subsided, leaving nothing but a smile of pure affection. "I think I was about to do this," she murmured, and pushed him onto his back. She made a meal of his mouth as he wrapped his arms tight around her waist and then loosened them again so his hands could explore. From mouth, to cheek, to sideburn, to ear, and down his neck she traveled, running her own hands down his sides. She'd expected something scrawny, but he was all lean muscle, the only bone at knees and elbows and shoulders, she burrowed her hands under his back and buried her face in the hollow of his neck.

Momentarily distracted from his own reaching and touching by the feel of Bonnie's hands and hair and mouth, Mike lay back and gave in to her, holding on as if he'd fall without her. "Baby, yeah, you are the softest, sweetest, best thing to happen," he moaned softly. Then, "_OW!_" He thrust her away with both hands. "Goddammit didn't your mama ever tell you it's not nice to _bite_?" He strained to look at the place where she'd gotten carried away a moment ago.

Bonnie sat up, breathless, hair in her face. "What…? I'm sorry I didn't mean to…" she leaned closer to examine the spot and sure enough, the red marks of her teeth were printed plainly on the ivory skin above Mike's collar bone. "Oh, god, I'm _sorry_, I mean some guys like it…"

"'Some guys'?" he echoed. "Like maybe vampires? Or cannibals?" She sat there looking stunned and uncertain, so he relented. "It's okay, y'just took me by surprise. See, I like it nice and sweet and easy," he demonstrated by taking her in his arms and leaning over her, planting kisses on her face and neck and shoulders, stroking his fingers along the sides of her breasts and down to her hips, "no rough stuff." _That's for strangers_ he thought to himself, _that's for skin my callouses don't care about. _He continued to stroke and pet and kiss her, enjoying the sounds he drew from her, doing whatever he could to bring out more.

"Nes…mith," she whimpered as his long fingers moved inside of her, the other hand gripping her ass, his mouth working from one breast to the other, open and warm and nipping with extreme gentle attention, "do it however you like, just keep doing it."

Bonnie's fingers were running through Mike's hair, forcing him to enormous lengths of self-control to hold back from jumping her like a horny sailor (or coming right there on the bedspread).

"Mmm, yeah, nice 'n' easy, see," he whispered against her nipples between slow licks, "nice slow small town lovin'…" Her fingers clenched, and pulled his head up.

"Small town my ass, you're from Dallas."

He rolled his eyes (and his fingers, eliciting a groan from her and a wicked smile from him). "You talk _way_ too much, looks like I gotta shut you up _again_." He opened his mouth against hers and pulled her tongue in to massage it with his own. The sounds he made in his throat echoed in Bonnie's head and she grabbed at his hips to move him where she wanted him.

"Don't worry, I'm gettin' there," he promised. He rolled her onto her side and slid one long hand from where it had been making her moan and squirm, slid it along her inner thigh and gave himself space to slip in his cock with just a shift of his hips. "Auhhh," he breathed in Bonnie's ear, it was a combination of groan and whisper that sounded to her like that moan he gave at the end of some musical phrases that echoed in the mix… _sweeeet youuung thing-auhhh.._. but right now it echoed in her ear, sounding like most men did when they had finished. Except he was just getting started.

He rocked them, so much like the way he rocked them in the mixing booth when he'd come back and she'd needed something more like warmth than logic, but so much closer now. How many girls he'd had, how he'd perfected his moves, none of it mattered because it was just them, here and now, making space in the life they hadn't ever really planned because who could plan this? When Bonnie got a little crazy Mike lay back and let her take over, loving the way she rode him... "I ain't no cowboy but _you're_ showin' some promise"... he moaned in encouragement, then slowed her down to make it last, rolled her off of him again to control their rhythm because it just felt so _good_ to be making love instead of fucking.

"Better, baby, so… much… better…" he whispered against her ear in time to their rolling thrusting wrapping around one another, back and forth in velvet and chinchilla and each other, and getting there felt so good that it didn't matter who came first or second, or again. "Baby, yeah, shaaaa vaaahn, auhh," in the end he used her old name, the one she kept for herself, because it felt right and she felt right. Finally, just now, and here, everything felt _right_.

She held his head against her shoulder and felt his pulse pumping hard in his neck, felt it slow to normal with his breathing, and her own. She felt something else, too, and moved a little to look into the unshaded brown eyes, exposed when his damp hair fell back. A little wet at the corners.

"Michael," she breathed, using his real name. Because it felt right. Whatever else she was feeling was a little too much for either one of them to get close to right now.

"Pants off... works pretty good, too," she smiled against his cheek.

He turned his head to catch her smile with his own. "It's late, go to sleep now," he told her. Bonnie sighed in contentment as Mike cradled her against him like every other man she'd known had never bothered to do. She shut her eyes, drifting in their shared body heat and the feel of his fingertips tracing feathery patterns on her face.

"Yumm," she slurred drowsily, "you smell like chocolate..."

"Part of my charm, Morris, part of my charm," he drawled in her ear in a low, velvety voice. When she'd dropped off he watched her for a long time, finally lying back with a quiet sigh. "Here we'll stay," he said to the darkness, and faded to sleep.

* * *

Mike woke just before sunrise, much the same way he'd done that night in Chicago. There she was again, head resting on his arm, facing half away from him. Sprawled carelessly next to him like a welcome accident. Unlike that morning in Chicago this time he reached for her, and wasn't surprised at all when she came to him and wrapped around tight, chinchilla and all.


	4. All One Piece

_What a dream… what a deliciously hot, crazy dream… never thought about that tall dark-eyed Texan bein' a goddamn love machine… if he was half as good in real time I'd jump him, no more talk, just… gawd can I look him in the eye after all these nasty hot dreams I had last night…_

Rinnnggg….rinnggg…rinnnnggggg….

_Ah shit… fucking alarm clock…_

Without opening her eyes, Bonnie swung wildly in the direction of her imaginary alarm clock… and smacked Mike in the face as he was crawling over her to get at the phone.

_What the fuck…_

"What the _fuck_ Morris!" Mike hollered, only half awake himself, now lying across Bonnie clutching his jaw. He recovered enough to make a desperate dive across the rest of the huge bed and grabbed for the phone, first knocking it off the cradle, catching the coiled cord with his other hand. He reeled it in like a dead fish and collapsed crossways on the bed, lying on his back with it pressed to the side of his face that hadn't just been walloped by Sleeping Deadly.

"This better be good," he snarled as he peered at the clock on the wall. "It's only… _seven fucking thirty?_" Anger burnt off the fog of sleep.

_"Mike, babe, it's Bob. Look, I've been trying to reach Bonnie since yesterday. She doesn't answer her phone and her service says she hasn't picked up calls. I called the other guys…"_

"Goddamn, you gotta death wish calling me this early? You gave us the day off! DAY. OFF. That means not working. It also means not calling me at the goddamn crack of dawn, for anything except a raise or a Grammy. What the hell you looking for Bonnie for anyway?"

_"Just a quick head's up on shooting for Tuesday. Don't worry about it, she'll handle everything. But I'm telling you, I can't find her! It's just not like her to do this."_

"Do what?" Mike inquired acidly, "Have a life?"

By now Bonnie was awake, if confused, embarrassed by having laid a roundhouse on the man she'd spent the night doing things with that clearly were worthy of dirty-dream status. She struggled to sit up.

_"Quit treating me like the enemy for ten seconds, will you? She always calls her service like clockwork, unlike the rest of you clowns. It would be nice to know she's still alive."_

"Who knew what a groovy, bundle of love you are, man."

_"Hey, contrary to popular belief I'm not the World's Biggest Asshole. Try to believe I'm a little worried by now, okay?"_

"Okay, okay, put down your heart pills, mother." Mike rolled his eyes. "Hang on a minute, I'll get her. And she's not gonna be happy either, man, she works harder than _you_ do."

Covering the receiver with a nearby pillow Mike advised Bonnie, "Think fast, it's Bob. He's been trying to reach you since yesterday, probably dialed the whole Greater LA phone book."

Bonnie sat bolt upright in panic. While sleeping with the talent wasn't expressly forbidden, it absolutely wasn't encouraged. In fact any long term relationship was considered a PR problem... a single Monkee was a marketable Monkee, gotta play accessible to the teeny boppers. The Open Secret of Groupies was strangely okay, in that there were fans everywhere hoping to get a one-night-stand with one of the guys. Hit-and-run was fine, but only out of camera range. While personal relationships were close to impossible given the crazy life the guys were leading, if they happened they would have to be kept under the radar. Kinda hard when one party was a Monkee and the other one was high-end production staff.

She gestured madly at Mike, mouthing "No-no-no!" He waved her off.

"Just shuck and jive, Morris, you do it every day." He shoved the phone into her hand as he encouraged in a whisper, "Relax, it's only a crime if I _paid_ you."

Bonnie glared poisoned arrows at Mike, and aimed an exaggerated yawn at the phone. "Wha? Whaddayou want, you slave driver."

_"Bonnie? You're at Mike's pad?"_

"Yeah, this is me and here I am." When the line went silent, she plowed ahead. "New music, late night, guest room. So why did you wake me up on my day off?"

_"Uh… sorry babe. We got some early shooting location notes for the first episode and I wanted to let you know."_

"And it can't wait until I actually get back to work?"

_"Just location info. Not the studio, a beach shoot."_

"You couldn't tell me this on Tuesday."

_"We gotta be at the beach on Tuesday first thing, morning setup. Be there at the location at 9 sharp. Costume and makeup will be there already. Let the boys know, they're not expecting it."_

"Fine. Done. Can I go back to sleep now?"

_"Yeah, sorry. Tell Mike I'm sorry." _

Bob was the boss of everyone, but something about Mike occasionally made him cautious. He really did believe the psycho Texan would walk if he were pushed too far, and that would be a very, _very _bad deal for the show.

"Done. Good BYE." Bonnie lobbed the receiver in a wide arc over the bed. "Don't even ask what he wanted, for at least another six hours," she warned Mike, who was more than willing to oblige. He left the receiver where it fell on the rug, ignoring the angry _eek-eek-eek_ of disconnection that would go silent in another minute. When she saw Mike rubbing the red spot on his cheek she reached for him to apologize. He shrank back in exaggerated fear.

"C'mon, Nesmith, I'm sorry! I wasn't awake, I thought the phone was my alarm clock." She slid over to him. "C'mon, lemme kiss the boo-boo," she pulled him closer and planted some kisses on the spot where she'd smacked him.

"I dunno, Morris," he mused, "if you don't stop knocking me around I am gonna have to rethink this thing. So far you've tried to punch me out in Chicago, belted me twice that morning at the studio, bit me last night, and went upside my face just now. This is starting to feel dangerous." When she sat back again with a frown, he laughed. "What's that face for? I'm just kidding!" he reached for her but she pulled further away. "Baby, 'danger' is my middle name," he added in the gangster voice.

"I know," she said. "That's not it."

"What, then?"

"I meant what I said last night, about not wanting to mess up what's already here… well I need that more than I need what happened last night. Just so you know… in case you ever find yourself thinking it's getting in your way…" She wasn't sure why it hit her right then, but it did, and hard.

Mike shook his head in exaggerated patience, then grabbed Bonnie and laid her out in his arms. He leaned up over her on an elbow. "There you go with those pieces again. I meant what _I_ said, too… we can make room for all of it." Now he smiled down at her serious face, lowered his head and gave her a kiss. "Morris, you gotta _relax_. Know how I see it? Everything about us is already 'here.' Nothing you can break, no pieces, get it? Now I could lie to you and tell you that you're the first I've had here with me, but I won't. I _will_ tell you that there's been no groupies, no quick fucks. No strangers allowed."

"Your wife...? I didn't know you were married when the show started."

Mike nodded. "Not for long though… it was all over but the leaving by the time we moved in." He rolled onto his back. "Damn, we do get to serious rapping at weird times, don't we?"

Bonnie rolled closer. "Guess it's all one piece, take it or leave it."

"I do believe I'll take it." Mike grinned, and winked.

"You get such a look, sometimes," Bonnie observed. "Like a man of the world, and you're how old?"

"Twenty-seven. Don't tell the PR department, they tell the fans I'm twenty-five. Gotta keep the 'younger dem-o-graphic' interested, y'know. The sweet young things," he pulled her face next to his and breathed in her ear, "Auhhh."

She laughed and lay on his chest, arms crossed under her chin, and stared at the beautiful brown eyes, delicious mouth, the sweet face made sexier by the dark unshaven stubble that had been growing while he was away. "That's okay, they don't know my real age, either."

The dark eyebrows rose. "Please tell me you are over twenty-one," he joked.

"Considerably." She whispered her age in his ear.

"_Thirty four_?" he burst out. Before she could react one way or the other his smile turned sly, and his eyes narrowed mischievously. "Daym. I've always wanted me one a'you foxy _older_ chicks, heard you're real adventurous." He sat up and beckoned in a seductive drawl, "C'mon, I know a way t'get dirty and clean at the same time…"

* * *

Inside of ten minutes Mike was sliding Bonnie up and down the granite walls in his shower as the hot water poured over them. He was growling in her ears and nibbling her shoulders and neck, reveling in her squeals and moans as much as the hot velvet grip of her around his cock. Her legs were locked around his hips, her arms around his neck, and this time she let him take complete control. The truth was, she was beyond doing anything else… he slowed down, sped up, grunted and growled and groaned in rhythm with his movements.

"Good, baby, good," he told her over and over, "we're – _ah_ – so – _unh_ – _good_…" Bonnie was so far gone that when she felt Mike's fingers working on and in her she had no idea how he managed it, and couldn't care less. They ended flat on the floor in the shower, grinding and rolling and making noises neither one had made (or heard) in a long time. It took a little while for them to recover enough for Mike to reach up and turn off the water.

"Well I guess we got dirty taken care of," he panted. After a couple more minutes he eased off of Bonnie and invited, "How about clean?"

"Huh?" She was too dazed to make sense of it but hung on as Mike picked her up and took her to the huge tub. He ran the warm water until it was half full, and climbed right in with Bonnie in his arms, sitting her down with her back to him. When he started rubbing her back up and down with a soapy washcloth, she leaned back and sighed.

"Hey, no groping, now, or I'm gonna leave," Mike warned, making Bonnie laugh out loud. "What?"

"That's what Peter said that night he took me home from Whisky. Don't bother asking, I'll tell you later. Just keep scrubbing… I've always wanted a bath boy."

* * *

After Bonnie had gotten dressed she returned to the bathroom where Mike was taking care of his hair and face.

"Here's your hair dryer, thanks." She'd washed out her panties in the sink and blown them dry before getting dressed.

"I don't get it," Mike said, "Guys'll wear the same shorts for days if they have to."

"Eeewwww… I really hope that didn't include you yesterday…wow, you guys sure make weird faces when you're shaving," Bonnie observed.

"Oh, right, unlike women and their makeup… what is that open-your-mouth for mascara thing, anyway?" Face now smooth, and sideburns groomed, Mike worked some expensive conditioner through his hair and blew it dry.

"Hah, Nesmith, that bit in the tour docu was right. You do fuss more with your hair than a girl does. Me, I just let mine drip-dry."

"Well you don't have a sexy-man rock star image to keep up," he smirked as he passed her to go back to the bedroom.

She scurried up behind to goose his (fabulous) ass through the towel he'd wrapped around his waist. "Forget your hair, Nesmith, it's _this_ they're watching!"

When they got into the bedroom, which by now was flooded with light through the sliders, she noticed the marks after he'd pulled on his jeans and was rummaging in the closet for a shirt.

"Okay, don't freak out or anything, but I think I got careless again…" She tapped his shoulder, and he strained to see in the mirrored closet door. On both shoulders were a series of fresh hickeys, a few extending down toward his chest. The previous night's bite mark, while fading, was still barely visible.

"Hmm, guess so. But you got as good as you gave, mama." He pointed to a few pink marks on her collarbone.

"Yeah, but _I_ don't have to romp in a bathing suit for a beach shoot tomorrow."

He stopped, shirt hanging in hand, and stared at her. "A beach shoot. Tomorrow. And you marked me up like a fucking prom date."

Bonnie raised both hands. "What can I say? Young sexy-man rock star, you are too much for me, I got carried away."

"Yeah, well on the way back to your place you are gonna pick up some makeup."

"I don't _buy_ makeup, Nesmith."

"You do now, Morris," Mike advised, ushering her down the stairs, "and it _better_ be waterproof."


	5. Pants on, Secrets Off

Mike drove Bonnie home as promised, after stopping at the drug store where he made her go in on her own to buy something to cover up the "evidence of your doing me like a chew toy." She went in and got the palest, most waterproof shade she could find.

"That doesn't really look like your color," the man behind the counter told her.

"It's for a friend."

"That your friend waiting outside?" the clerk inquired as he strained to look out the window where Mike was slouched in the Cobra, shades down, trying to be incognito. As if that car could _ever_ be mistaken for run-of-the-mill.

Bonnie inserted herself directly in the clerk's line of vision. "No, that's my ride, now can I have my change?" She beat it out of there and fairly leaped into the car. "Hit it, Nesmith, we're being watched."

When they got to her place Mike spent some time looking around, examining exotic knickknacks and books. "Sure you're not a gypsy fortune teller?" he joked as he lifted the edge of a fringed tablecloth. "There's enough beads and ribbons here to supply a caravan." He pored through another set of bookcases and cracked, "Where's the Ken Kesey?" When he stood and saw her glaring at him, he told her, "Don't be so uptight. I like it," he assured her, "it's you, Morris, you crammed a _lot_ of you into this little place."

He left the main living/dining/kitchen area to stick his head into the bedroom, navigating the beaded doorway as if he were struggling through jungle undergrowth. Bonnie came up behind him as he was checking out the stained glass panels at the top of her bedroom window. Shortly after she'd moved in she noticed they cast a rainbow of light on her double-sized bed, so she covered it in white muslin and jewel-colored velvet throw pillows. She loved the effect in the morning when the sun shone brightest on this side of the apartment.

"Is that the door to perdition?" Mike asked, pointing to the red door in the corner.

"Nah, bathroom. But close, when the plumbing gets fussy."

The colors from the window were muted at this time of the early afternoon, but Mike leaned down to run his hand over the white quilt. "Very cool."

"Cool I can do," she told him as she went back to the living room. "Luxury's a little out of my range. You won't find much soft stuff next to your skin here, but I like it."

"Au contraire," he disagreed. He stood close and ran his hands inside the bottom of her shirt, fingers stroking her stomach, and bent his head to nuzzle into her neck. "Plenty of soft stuff right here." Then he stepped back and unbuttoned his shirt. "Okay, let's see how good you are at repairing the damage."

She directed him to a low, padded stool upholstered in Indian fabric.

"A tuffet?" he exclaimed in exaggerated amazement. "I never knew anyone who had a real _tuffet_," he laughed as he sat. Crouched, more like, his long legs doubled so his knees nearly touched his chin. "Do your thing, Miss Muffet."

Bonnie uncapped the makeup and did her best, but soon realized that professional stage makeup was the only thing that would really do the job. And makeup girls' gossip was just what they were trying to avoid.

"How's it look?"

Bonnie stood back and sighed in dismay.

"Like cheap makeup over hickeys."

"Ah, shit." He stood and checked himself in the bead-bordered mirror on the wall. She was right. Against his pale skin even the lightest shade looked like dark spots. "I look like an overripe banana."

"Hey, I got the lightest foundation they had! Jesus, Nesmith, you're whiter than George Wallace, what else can I do?"

"Maybe control your carnivorous urges," he muttered as he pulled on his shirt. Bonnie put the cap back on the makeup and winged the bottle at him.

"You might think about those _violent_ ones too," he suggested as he ducked to let the bottle fly by and land on a pile of pillows in the corner. "That's five."

Her temper interrupted, she corrected, "That's _six_."

"Nah. You get a pass on the bite…given it some thought and," he leaned over and growled in her ear "…kinda sexy, grrr..." Then he tucked in his shirt and buckled his belt, and shrugged. "Look, we won't sweat it. I'll just tell anyone who asks I got chewed up by some friendly girls in New York. You _know_ they'll believe that." He paused for a moment, serious. "That gonna bother you?"

"_No_ it's not gonna bother me. Actually I like the irony." She looked at him for a minute, shook her head, and dodged past him to go to the phone. "Nesmith you and this job and this _life _make me crazy. Now, I got calls to make."

She ended up leaving messages with Davy and Micky's answering services, hoping they'd actually call for messages (it was not always a given). Peter, however, was home.

_"Hey, Bonnie, you're alive! Bob called looking for you. Where'd he find ya?"_

"Nesmith's pad. Long story." She told him about the beach shoot, and apologized for invading his day off.

_"That's okay, I'm just hanging out with some friends. Mike's pad, huh? I'm glad everything worked out. I felt real bad about mixing things up with you guys."_

Bonnie was puzzled. "Mixing things up? How'd you do that?"

_"By telling Bob about your résumé thing. You mean Mike didn't tell you?"_

She looked over at Mike, who was flipping through one of her books. "No, he didn't. I mean it just wasn't important to me anymore, I was stupid to make such a big deal about it in the first place."

_"Still, I shouldn't have shot my mouth off."_

"So why didn't you tell me yourself?"

_"He figured you'd think we were both lying to save his ass. I feel like a jerk, I never really thought he was right."_

Bonnie was silent for a minute, and looked at Mike again, who looked up at her and smiled goofily before going back to the book in his hand.

"I got news," she admitted to Peter, "he _was_ right. I'd never have believed you. I feel like a _real_ jerk."

Peter's laughter floated – that was the only word for it, "floated" – through the receiver.

_"People get mixed up sometimes, no sweat."_

She stared at the phone in her hand, wondering once again if this guy could be for real, knowing that he was.

"You're too good for this business, man."

"_Please don't call me 'sweet Pete' again._"

Shuddering, she agreed, "Deal. Okay, see you tomorrow at the beach location, bright and early."

As she was about to say goodbye, Mike sprang from the chair where he was sitting. "Wait, lemme talk to him."

He took the phone from her and walked as far away as the cord would allow, keeping his voice low. When he came back, he gave Bonnie a nudge. "C'mon, we got places to go."

"But we gotta _work_ tomorrow!" she protested.

"Put on something funky, we are going where they play the good stuff. Don't just stand there, woman," he hustled her toward her bedroom doorway, "you need to get out in the real world and so do I! I got a taste of it in New York, and man it has been _too long_. Can't believe I had to fly three thousand miles to hear good music, when it's right around the corner. So get a move on. I promise you'll be in bed by 11." He grinned wickedly and cocked an eyebrow. "Earlier, if y'play your cards right."

Bonnie disappeared into her room and emerged moments later in a tied dyed silk peasant blouse, faded bell bottoms and sandals, her hair twisted up in a careless knot spiked with a pair of black lacquer chopsticks. She wore rings on most of her fingers and a tangle of silver bracelets that tinkled musically when she moved.

"This okay?" she asked. He was in full-denim mode, himself: tight jeans, tight knee-high buckskin boots, denim shirt and jacket. It only now occurred to her that he looked good enough to eat as he leaned by the door, shades perched on top of his head.

Mike stood up straight and saluted. "Mama, you are a rock'n'roll wet dream," he said plainly, "so let's go before I do something neither _one_ of us will regret. And remind me not to piss you off tonight," he requested, eyeing her jewelry-laden hands, "one crack from _those_ and I'm a dead man."


	6. In You Came

The sun was just setting when they pulled up to the Troubador. Bonnie had heard of the place, of course, but never had had the time or inclination to venture out to West Hollywood at night. She was usually too tired, and didn't want to spend the money on cab fare anyway. Suddenly, right this minute, she realized that in her year-and-a-half in L.A. she had made no real friends at all.

Mike tooled the Cobra into the parking garage across the street, and left the keys with the attendant. "No big acts tonight, bein' Monday, but there's bound to be somebody worth hearing. And they always keep a set or two free for specials."

"Specials?" Bonnie asked, trotting to keep up with Mike's long stride.

"Anyone who's worth hearing who just happens to show up."

As they got in the entrance, Bonnie was distracted by various photos of performers, recognizing many but not all. "Hey, the Spoonful play here? Wait a minute, Lenny Bruce, yeah, he got _busted_ here!"

Mike stepped up close behind her and leaned down to advise with a smile, "Close your mouth, Morris, you look like a tourist. Been in town for almost two years and you managed to avoid the best music around? Shame on a girl from Greenwich Village!"

She snapped back, "Excuse me, Mr. Rock Star, like you noticed, I don't get out much."

"Well you're out now, c'mon," and he led the way to a doorway topped with the neon letters "Show Room".

A staff member stood by the door, holding a clipboard of names. Bonnie noticed he didn't bother to consult the list as they approached.

"Hey, nice to see you again," the doorman greeted Mike.

"Nice to be seen," Mike returned. He reached back and slipped an arm around Bonnie to pull her up closer. "She's with me. Bonnie, this is Jimmy. He came with the lease."

Jimmy laughed and stepped aside. "Enjoy. Your friends are upstairs."

Mike steered Bonnie through the door and up the stairs, hand resting casually on the small of her back, as if they'd come here a million times.

_Well I'll bet __he__ has,_ she thought to herself. As they topped the stairs she saw they were in the center of a level balcony that overlooked the club and stage below. There were several banquettes against the walls and between them a few smaller tables. This area clearly was intended only for VIPs. Below… that was for the groundlings.

Mike slung his arm around Bonnie again and brought her to stand with him at the edge of the table in front of the nearest banquette. Chip Douglas, their studio and tour sound guy and occasional recording producer was seated at one end and Peter at the other, and between them a songwriter named Carole that had written some hits for the Monkees' albums. Between Carole and Chip, to Bonnie's surprise, was Genie, who she hadn't seen since the less-than-stellar morning of the costume fitting.

Chip greeted them with a smirk. "Hey, I thought they kept the riffraff down below."

Mike nodded to indicate Bonnie. "They tried, but I told 'em nope, she's with me. Morris, you know Chip the Dip."

Peter waved brightly. "I'm Sweet Pete." When the others offered various confused/nauseated looks he added, "Hey, when she's right she's right," and offered no further explanation.

In more adult mode, Mike indicated Carole, "Don't know if you've met Carole King, she's a songwriter trapped in the same mass-produced hell as the rest of us. Plays a mean piano, too."

Carole half stood and reached out a hand to Bonnie. "Hi, we've sort of crossed paths at some meetings I think. Morris… that's an unusual name."

Bonnie shook Carole's hand. "Bonnie Morris, you can call me Bonnie. Nesmith and I have kind of a longstanding name issue. Hey Genie, good to see you again!" Peter stood and everyone else did a slide to the right. Mike pointed to the space next to Genie.

"Go on and work on your social skills, Morris, Pete and I have some stuff to discuss." He turned to the others and offered in a stage whisper, "She doesn't get out much in public." Tipping Bonnie a wink that made her breath hitch, he and Peter retreated down the stairs.

"So like I was saying, it's good to see you again," Bonnie told Genie, who was smiling broadly to see her and Mike together.

"You'll be seeing more of me, Bob's hired me on to head costumes for the show."

Bonnie blinked twice, then announced, "Somebody get this lady a double. No, a _triple_. She's gonna need it."

As Chip and Carole laughed, Genie leaned closer and whispered to Bonnie, "Glad to see you and Tall Boy sorted things out. He looked a bit knocked down that day when you sent him off."

Small talk led to shop talk about style, sartorial and musical, about the irony of songs retooled and sold as generic plastic widgets by Kirshner, about the pragmatic need to sell them versus the artistic need to keep them free of plastic. There were a couple of short sets played by musicians she'd heard of somewhere or other, and very good too. During an announced break, finally Bonnie was beginning to wonder where Mike and Peter had gotten to.

"I heard Pete say something about doing a tune," Chip explained. "Maybe they're gonna do some together. Pete brought a couple cases, left 'em in the rehearsal room backstage."

There was no proper host on nights like this, so only the feedback from instruments being plugged in announced the beginning of another set.

"Heads up, guys," Chip pointed to the stage below, where Mike and Peter engaged in last-minute fine-tuning.

"Nesmith didn't come armed," Bonnie noted in confusion, looking to the others for explanation.

"He brought his banjo, and went back to Mike's to pick up that new toy of his, the Gibson," Carole said.

Mike stepped up to the lone vocal mic and greeted the middle-sized crowd. "Hey, been a while, it's cool to be back where they only play the good stuff." He checked something with Peter, who nodded and moved closer to the instrument mic.

"I brought a friend of mine here tonight who needs to get out more," he told everyone without looking up at the balcony. "She says I write some groovy songs, but they're mostly about leaving and staying away. So Pete and I we're gonna do a tune by somebody else tonight, somebody you're never gonna meet, whose stuff is too good not to hear for that kind of a reason. It's brand new to us, so try not to judge the art by the mechanics, dig? It came without a name, so for now I'll just call it Long Distance."

Bonnie had been half-listening to his intro, embarrassed by his reference to her criticism even if nobody (except her companions) knew it was hers. But then the room fell silent as the tune began…

...one-handed harmonics... perfect,_ right-_handed harmonics.

Bonnie's breath caught in her throat. She shut her eyes, not wanting to see if Mike was looking up, knowing he wasn't, and neither was Peter, they were too focused on playing. And not just the notes. The _voice_ surrounded her, every bit of the last tune Benny had played to her on the phone, the last tune recorded on the tape Mike brought from New York. And every voice in the room, in the bar, in the balcony, had vanished. The only voice came from Benny's tune, _Benny's_ voice, every grace and flourish delicately woven between guitar and five string gut-strung banjo. She was barely aware she was holding her breath, until Genie asked quietly, "Are you okay luv?" only to be driven back by Bonnie's impatient inhale and hiss… _be quiet, there's only room for one voice in this room_, she thought as loudly as she could. She didn't want it to end, but knowing every note, she knew exactly when it would. A triplet from the guitar, and another from the banjo, then a final, single, perfect, one-handed harmonic that rang like crystal through the room. And then, for a few magic seconds, silence. To describe the applause that followed as "thunderous" would be an exaggeration. It was enthusiastic, to be sure, especially given the smallish Monday-night crowd. But to Bonnie's ears it was deafening, just because it was there at all. A voice from the bar called out, "Who wrote that, man?"

"A dude named B.J. Morris, used to play at a club in the Village," Mike told them. "Never got to make a record, but someone told me it's not fair for nobody to hear stuff this good, so now you have." He and Peter thanked the club for letting them play, and left the stage.

Bonnie had recovered, sort-of, but found herself unable to speak. She wasn't crying, and she was breathing again, but she just couldn't manage to move from the last echo of the tune back to the real world. Finally Carole broke the silence.

"Bonnie, B.J. Morris, he any relation?"

She nodded, and managed to add, "My brother. Died in a dumbass VW van rollover on the way to a gig. Nesmith heard a tape…" She looked toward the stage again. "I don't know how they did that, I don't know…" She looked questioningly at the others sitting with her. "I need some air."

"That door, back stairs, leads to a courtyard they only use on weekends," Chip directed. "You okay?"

She nodded, and left.

* * *

Down the stairs, out the door, to a brick terrace that bordered a miniature park-like arrangement of flowers and a couple of small trees. She sat on a concrete bench and dropped her head in her hands, trying to sort out her thoughts.

_He has not put a step false since Chicago, because he knows me, knows exactly who I am. Only somebody who knows exactly who I am could do this._

This was not what she expected to happen when she moved to L.A. She expected distance from everything, something to complement that empty space that remained when Benny had died. So much of her had been gone for so long, she'd thought making the move she'd planned already would remove the contrast between familiar presences and the emptiness in her. Come to L.A., get a job, TV show, lots of noise and demanding work and masses of anonymous people she wouldn't need to know. But there he was among the new faces, someone else who'd gotten what he'd wanted, but not enough _not _to want more, or better, or… _something_. And without the good grace and manners to let her ignore him, he casually drew her into something not so casual, and by the time she woke up to it, it was too late. She came here to _dis_connect, but didn't pay close enough attention. And when she got pissed off at herself for giving up too much, and turned it into being pissed off at _him_ for an imagined betrayal, he'd done the impossible… he'd made it right. He'd found just the way to make her lapse of attention seem safe, and right. Not a step false, and not a word spoken worth doubting... or fearing.

_I am making this too hard…_ _why am I making this so hard?_

* * *

Mike and Peter bounded up the stairs, cases in hand, only to be greeted by a mixture of praise and perplexed faces.

"That was amazing, guys," Chip announced.

Mike didn't say anything, but it was clear he was noticing Bonnie's absence.

"She needed some air," Genie told him and Peter, and the two men exchanged looks.

"Shit, maybe this wasn't such a brilliant idea," Mike muttered. "Couldn't even sit through it."

"No," Genie got up and stood with him and Peter. "She did, she seemed _lost_ in it. She told us her brother wrote it, she told us how she lost him. I think she was just overwhelmed. Whatever it meant to her, I think she didn't know how to share it with people she doesn't know very well."

_That kind of lightning doesn't strike twice, _Mike thought, remembering Chicago. _Then again, we knew each other pretty well even before then._

"I sent her down to the courtyard, man," Chip told him. "Genie's right, she wasn't freaked, just kinda over her head. Go on down and check in, why don't you."

Before he went he turned to Peter. "Thanks, Pete. Short notice and all, you were great."

"Hard to screw up music like that," he said, and everyone looked at him as if he were crazy. "Okay, okay! You're welcome."

* * *

Mike sat next to Bonnie, not touching, like they'd done for so long before recent days, and said nothing.

"The day he left for North Carolina," she began as if continuing an old conversation, "we had such a _fight._ My fight, because I didn't want him to go. I had all sorts of arguments and reasons, but that was it, really, and he knew it. So I knew he'd leave anyway, because someone wanting you not to go just isn't a good enough reason to stay when you're looking for a bigger life and the chance is there for the taking. And the last thing I said to him, I said 'so go but if you do, if you walk away, I don't ever want to see your leaving ass again.' And I could see it in his face that he didn't really believe that, but knew that I did, so there was nothing left to do but go even though he didn't want to leave with things like that. And yeah, of course I got over it, almost an hour after he left, and we patched it all up. But he never did make it back, and even though I know that's nobody's fault, the last look I ever had of him, it wasn't laughter or love or happiness. It was that hurt, resigned look, the one that said 'all is forgiven' even before I knew how badly I'd fucked up. And last Thursday, at the costume fitting, after I'd thrown in your face everything you hadn't done, stuff that didn't _matter_ anyway, that's exactly the look I saw on you just before you turned and walked away, with every good reason to. And just like with Benny an hour later I knew how wrong I was, but you were gone, so I gave myself permission to get flat-ass dead drunk and blame you for that, too, because I was too stupid to know you'd come back, really come _back_. And Peter, he came and got me and took me home and when we got in the door he looked so _good_, he was being so nice and standing so close to me, and I thought 'I'll have me some of that, why not', you guys get that not-right-but-right-_now_ action so it must do something for you, right? And Peter was there for the taking, but he wouldn't be taken. And that, Nesmith, is the story of how I grabbed Peter's ass and almost bit his tongue out." She looked sidelong at Mike, who still sat next to her, leaning forward, elbows on knees, shades lowered even though it was nighttime. He was nodding slowly.

"A little more than I expected, but that's okay." Without sitting up, he slid his shades up and turned his head to face her. "I'm just trying to make it easier for you, Morris. You know that, right?"

"I think I'm finally getting it. I'm kind of slow sometimes."

"That's okay, I got time. When we're here, just here, like this, I got all the time I need."

* * *

When they got to her door, he showed her his watch. "See, ten-thirty, just like I promised."

She unlocked the door and stepped inside, turning when he didn't follow. "You staying?"

He shook his head. "Not tonight, we both need some sleep. I'll pick you up tomorrow, get you to the beach in time for your meeting." He leaned in to give her a kiss.

"Okay… 'night." She stood there uncertainly for a few seconds to watch him take the first few stairs, then closed the door and locked it. By the time she was halfway to her room, she heard the single knock. When she opened the door again he was leaning heavily against the frame, shades in hand.

"That invitation still good?"

She nodded, smiled, and stood aside, closing the door and locking it behind them.

"In you came," she told him.

"Back at ya, Siobhan."


End file.
